


Sweet Tooth

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27138826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: You meet Marcus in a New York bar, over cocktails, and you bring him home with you.
Relationships: Marcus Pike/Reader, Marcus Pike/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Sweet Tooth

You’re one drink in when you notice him across the crowded bar. Tall, he cuts a fine figure in the charcoal grey suit, the white shirt flirting between the lapels of the well-tailored jacket. The material is open at the neck, revealing a tempting glimpse of a smattering of curling, pale gold chest hair.

His burnt-honey hair curls around his face of planes and angles, thick as a lion’s mane, and likely softer. His patchy beard matches, clinging to his top lip like a lover, hugging his strong jaw.

Then he looks your way, as if you commanded it, and your stomach muscles clench at the dark, mocha-latte brown of his eyes. 

Some lower muscles clench, too. Wanting.

You sip you drink and turn away towards the huge, floor-to-ceiling windows this bar boasts. It’s new here in the meatpacking district, just hipster enough, prices not too eye-watering. You hold a twist on an Old Fashioned in your hand, the asian honey lending it a kick. It goes down smoothly.

Would the man across the room taste as good?

Something moves in the edge of your vision and you look up to see him beside you. He’s got a cat-like grace you can’t help but admire.

“Enjoying the view?” you ask idly.

“Very much.” But his chocolate, soulful eyes are on your face.

You’d taken time with your appearance tonight - sleeked your hair, worn your favourite berry-red dress, with a nipped in waist and a big skirt. you knew you looked smokin’. Still, it was nice to be told, wasn’t it?

The tall stranger strats to say something, then seems to think better of it, adding a few moments later, “What’s your poison?”

You lift your drink. “Old fashioned with a twist. It’s not my usual, but…” you let your gaze linger on his face. “I think I like it. You?”

He turns the bottle he holds to show the label of a local brewery. “This is quite the gem, I think, found right here.” His gaze holds yours for a hot second. A second that stretches. “I’m tempted to find out more about it.”

You hide your smile in the rim of your glass. The alcohol has warmed you up considerably. It’d be good to cut loose with this hottie. His warm, kind eyes and his easy smile tell you he’d look after you. Make you feel good. “What would you like to know?”

He holds out a hand. “Perhaps we could start with names? I’m Marcus. Marcus Pike.”

You say your name and give him your hand, surprised when rather than shaking it, he presses a quick kiss to your knuckles.

He releases your hand, takes another pull on his beer and you watch the muscles in his throat as he swallows. Your own mouth feels suddenly dry. The line of his neck is excessively biteable. 

“And where are you, when you aren’t hanging out in hipster bars?” Marcus asks.

“I’m in the FBI.”

“Ah, law enforcement. That’s hot.” His brow quirks up along with a quick, vaguely naughty smile. You like it. You like _him_. “I’m in the Bureau, too. Art crimes. But I’d better watch my step. Don’t wanna get reported for fraternizing.”

“I’ll tell you if you overstep the mark.” You glance around the bar. The band is hotting up, and there’s nothing you hate more than dancing - okay, maybe organised dancing. You would take a half-empty bar and a cocktail any time. “So, Agent Marcus Pike of Art Crimes…. you wanna get out of here?”

He makes his eyes go wide for a second. “Is it safe out there for an art geek like me? This is the meatpacking district, you know.”

This surprises a laugh out of you. “I’ll protect you, Agent Pike. Just don’t try and critique any street art we find. Especially if it’s in progress.”

********

You make small talk on the cab ride home. Where you’re from, your parents, the possibility of mutual friends, your jobs. The shitty FBI coffee.

Marcus’ hand wanders to your knee during the ride. His palm is warm, fingers long. He’d look good playing the piano. And doing other things that involve skilled digits.

You intend to find out.

He pays the driver, and when the cabbie drops you off, you slide your key from the small purse that dangles at your shoulder. Rather self-consciously, you glance at the gorgeous man behind you . “Im, um, not in the habit of taking guys home from bars.”

His smile is kind. His eyes crinkle at the corners; under the low light of your building doorway strip-lamp, amber glints in his caramel hair. “It’s my first time, too. Be gentle.”

You laugh and let him in; you take the stairs together to your first floor apartment. When you get inside, all is quiet around you, the only sounds the hum of the refrigerator and the low-speed ceiling fan you’d left on as the nights tended to be humid.

“So, I, ah…”

He cups a hand on your cheek and kisses you. Surprised, it takes you a moment to respond, but you open to him. He tastes faintly of the beer he’d imbibed earlier, with a hint of coffee. You scent his aftershave, vanilla and black pepper, and you breathe in deeply, letting your tongue tangle with his. Letting yourself thrill and delight in this.

Marcus gently pulls back after the kiss turns deep, fiery, searching your face in the semi darkness. Moonlight floods in through the half-closed window blinds behind you, providing a soft glow, bathing Marcus in dusky silver.

“Drink?” you offer, a bit hesitant.

“Please.”

You lead him through to the kitchen, where the light on the stove blinks the late hour. Without turning on the light, you pour two single measures of the finest rum you have in the house. It’s smooth and spicy, a little vanillary, and potent. You offer it to him. His hands are beautiful, long fingers, wide palms. You’re very much looking forward to the feel of them on your skin. 

Soon.

You toast him. “To sexy strangers in New York bars.”

Surprise flickers over his face, but then, a smile tugs at his gorgeous mouth. “To sexy strangers.”

You both drink.

You set your glass aside on the counter, and after Marcus does the same, he tips your chin up with a finger. “The stranger label still applies. If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll go home, no hard feelings.”

His words warm you. “I want this, Marcus. I want you.”

With a low growl of pleasure, he captures your mouth again, kissing you so fiercely you feel nearly dizzy from it. His tongue toys with yours, brushing the sensitive roof of your mouth. Then he pulls back, nipping at your lips, his patchy scruff tickling pleasantly..

His hands stroke up your back and one snakes around to your front. His hot palm slides up your ribcage and brushes the curve of your breast lightly. Even through the fabric of your bra, his gentle, seeking touch sets your senses ablaze.

“Oh sweetheart,” he murmurs. His gaze meets yours and then drops to watch his own hand fondle your nipple to a hard peak under the thin dress.

Marcus sets your empty glasses aside and then lifts you up to sit on the worktop, his heated breath fanning the sensitive skin of your neck and chest.

“One minute.” He quickly crosses to the sink and reaches up to pull the cord that closes the venetian shutter style blinds. “Don’t wanna share you with the neighbours, honey.” When he comes back to you, he kisses you hotly, his hand once again stroking your breast until it feels full and heavy. “I’ve daydreamed about having you like this.”

“Um- Well, you’re doing wonders for my ego.”

“Sweetheart, I’m gonna stroke more than your ego.”

Your heart thumps. It feels as if it’s in your throat. You can only nod as he kisses you again, the taste of him running through your system like the sweetest drug. His nimble fingers start on the first button of your dress, revealing your skin.

Marcus pops another button, and another, his gaze on your breasts and the flesh he reveals. When he releases the button covering your bra from its small eyelet, he fills his hands with your bra-covered breasts. “Oh, _honey_.”

His autumn-brown eyes meet yours for a long, heated moment, and then he bends to drop kisses along the top edges of your bra, his fingers stroking your nipples until they harden to points, begging for more of his touch, begging for his lips.

He doesn’t disappoint. First he continues his path of kisses over the flesh covered by your bra. Then he takes your left nipple, fabric and all, into his mouth, swiping his tongue over the sensitive peak until you cry out, your fingers clutching in his warm, soft hair.

All the while, sitting on the worktop, you can feel the insistent bulge of his cock pressing against you, making you wet and wild for him, beyond any reason or hesitancy.

“I need to taste you,” he rasps, meeting your gaze, asking for your permission.

Giving it, you reach around to your back and squeeze the strap of your bra, releasing the connection.

Marcus slides it off your shoulders and exposure to the air tightens your nipples. You don’t have to worry about being cold for long. His mouth replaces the cool air, his tongue laving your nipple and flicking it back and forth until you arch wantonly against him, squirming against the hard ridge of his erection, wanting to be closer to him. _Needing_ it.

“Just…. Just a second, honey.” Marcus releases your nipple. You look at him askance as he opens the cupboard door to his left and takes out a jar of chocolate sauce.

“What’s that for?”

He grins at you, confidence, sex and temptation and desire all rolled into one amazing, six foot package. “Indulge this geeky Art Crimes Agent’s fantasy. Licking chocolate off you. May I?”

The erotic image that catapults into your head makes a surge of wetness pool between your legs. Choked by need, unable to speak even to say yes, you nod.

He unscrews the jar of chocolate sauce, his gaze burning into yours. “I’ve always had a... sweet tooth.” He dips his finger in and it comes out with a smear of sauce on the end. Rubbing this on your nipple, he bends and sucks you into his hot, wet mouth, his tongue working to remove the sauce. “Hmmm. It tastes even better on you, honey.”

Dizzy and breathless,you can only whisper, “more, I want more.”

“You can have everything.” He repeats the process on your other nipple, and then smears the sweet sauce on the slope of your breasts, too, licking it off, heightening your desire.

When he’s had his fill of licking the sauce from your nipples, now hardened to aching peaks, he cups your face and kisses you deeply, and more tenderly than before. “I’m going to take your dress off, now.”

You nod your assent, your head fuzzy with want for him, with want for more. More kissing, more sensation. Your body hovers on the peak of orgasm, tilting on what feels like the edge of a dizzying precipice.

Marcus lifts you briefly from the worktop to slide your dress down your body. It slips down to the floor, forgotten.

“You’re wearing lace,” he breathes. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“They were on sale,” you say without thinking.

“And thank God for end of season ranges,” Marcus chuckles. He cups your breast and toys with the nipple. “I’ll buy you another hundred pairs. Tomorrow.”

You’re about to joke that you’ll hold him to that, but then he cups you between the legs with his free hand, and all coherent thoughts fly from your head. Even through the lace of your underwear you feel the heat of his fingers as he strokes you along the damp seam of your nether lips.

“I wanted to spread chocolate on you here, too,” he murmurs against your mouth, kissing you oh, so gently. “Will you let me, honey?”

The idea turns you on so much that you know he must feel how wet you are through the thin lace. You can only murmur your assent as he drops a line of kisses down your neck and on to your shoulder.

You expect him to remove your panties then, but instead he just dips his hand under the side of the lace, running his finger up and down the place where your intimate lips meet, until you writhe against him. 

“Touch me, please.”

At your request, his finger finally parts you and strokes your over-sensitive labia and your swollen clit. You buck against him, demanding more. In response, he circles the tight bud, squeezing and rolling one of your nipples with his free hand until your breathing comes in hot, harsh gasps.

Just as you climb towards the dizzying peak, he withdraws his hand.

Bleary, you stare at him through a haze of want and need. “What…?”

Marcus lifts the jar of sauce, his smile almost bashful. “I wanna get you there with my mouth.”

At his words, your orgasm hovers even nearer.

He hooks his fingers in the sides of your panties and you lift your hips slightly, enabling him to slip them off, where they land with your dress, once again forgotten. Cool air touches your most intimate place, but before you can think about that feeling, he kneels before you, his mouth level with where you’re aching and wet and so _ready_ for him.

As you watch, totally transfixed, he parts you, his gaze drinking you in. He makes you feel like the sexiest creature alive, and you _revel_ in it.

You suck in a breath as he spreads chocolate sauce on your swollen, aching clit, and on the pink flesh of your most intimate folds. Setting the jar aside, he leans close, presses kisses on your inner thighs, and then, finally, he touches you with his tongue.

Long strokes and gentle flicks drive you mad. He teases you, licking off every smear of sauce, tasting you when it’s all gone. His tongue circles around and around the engorged button of your need, until you grasp at his hair. “Marcus, fuck! Please!”

Finally, finally, he gives you what you want, what you need, caressing you with his tongue in long, slow strokes, focusing only on your clit, until you buck hard against his mouth, waves of pleasure crashing over you again and again, until you whisper for him to stop, your body shaking with the aftershocks of an earth-shattering orgasm.

Marcus stands and takes in his arms. He lifts a hand and brushes a tiny smear of chocolate from the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I knew you would taste better than the chocolate.”

He kisses you, and you taste yourself. You smile at him, feeling wanton, feeling wicked. This man has given you the best orgasm of your life, and it’s only fair that you return the favour. You slide your hand down, cup him through his suit pants. He’s hard and ready and he arches into your touch.

“Take me to bed, Marcus.”

******

Afterwards, as you lie next to each other, Marcus turns to press a kiss to your hair. “I’d say that test assignment was a success, honey, don’t you think?”

You snort. “You kinda ruined it when you reached into the cupboard for the Nutella.”

He laughs. “Funny, you didn’t correct me at the time.

You cough out a laugh in response. “You know I loved it. But we were supposed to be strangers! You aren’t supposed to know where we keep stuff.”

Marcus sighs. “I stand by that improv.”

Laughing, you snuggle into him. “It was definitely one of your more inventive ideas. And what was that in the bar? _Fraternizing_. My ass. ” You grin into the half-darkness of the room.

“This is our first time. You said you’d be gentle.” He nibbles at your neck, relaxed, and the gentle press of his cock, half-hard again, is bliss against your ass. “Guess I shouldn’t really have tossed in that line about daydreaming about fucking you on the counter, either, huh. Kinda gave myself away.”

“But I loved that. It was hot. You getting carried away, I mean.” You peek up at him with interest. “So you liked it? You’d do it again - the roleplay thing?”

“Sure I would.”

You cuddle into him, sighing happily. The room settles around you, decorated in pale grey tones. The bits and pieces of your married life keep you warm here.

“Maybe you could be a rogue agent next time,” you say sleepily, closing your eyes. Marcus is so warm beside you and he smells like home; like happiness and safety.

He kisses your hair; his cock stirs. “Oh yeah?”

“You could be on the run. I could capture you.”

He thrusts against you lazily, but his own eyes are closing, ready for sleep. “I’d put up a fight. Art Crimes run a tight ship.”

“I'm counting on it.”

You slide into sleep together, the apartment quiet around you, and you slumber deep and dreamlessly in Marcus’ embrace.


End file.
